


Why the World Wags

by demisteve



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Historical References, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other, POV Multiple, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-02-06 21:17:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12826287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demisteve/pseuds/demisteve
Summary: It is in the fourth spring of Arthur’s reign that Merlin realizes – he is tired.—Arthur is a king troubled by his councilors and Merlin is still by his side, if a little to the wayside.





	1. MERLIN

**Author's Note:**

> hoooo boy this one was a long time coming. my anthropology degree will not let me avoid researching every little detail.  
> comment and such x

It is in the fourth spring of Arthur’s reign that Merlin realizes – he is tired.

The feeling comes upon him as he sits in the antechamber darning a sock, a little ache in his chest not unlike the sorrow that surrounded him the weeks and months following Will’s death.

He hasn't seen much of Arthur in recent months – and he understands, really. The king is a busy man, and between juggling the concerns of the masses, the pressures of his council to name an heir, and Morgana’s encroaching forces, he surely has too much on his plate to bother with Merlin. Merlin is immensely proud of all Arthur has managed to do in just a few short years and determined to help in any way he can.

This doesn't mean that he doesn't sometimes get lonely, though.

Gaius passes peacefully in his sleep during a warm summer storm, his mother the following winter after a long fever. Arthur immediately arranges a ceremony for each, going so far as to venture to Ealdor himself to retrieve Hunith’s remains; the villagers had assembled the pyre themselves when the flesh began to rot.

He sits with Merlin during his nightlong vigil on both occasions, still and stoic and more than Merlin can handle.

“You did the same for me.”

Merlin is both touched and flustered by Arthur’s actions, but soon after they refer to their usual respective roles, and Merlin is allowed to fade into the background.

 

~~**M M M** ~~

 

He is only somewhat surprised when he hears Kilgharrah’s voice in his head one afternoon, so loud he has to stop drawing water for Arthur's bath and lean against the wall to ease his pounding head.

 _Meet me in the Darkling Woods after sunset,_ he says.

And so, after bathing Arthur in silence, fetching his dinner, and preparing the king for bed, Merlin finds himself sneaking through the castle like he's a boy again.

The outer fields of Camelot sport tall grasses that glow silver in the moonlight and Merlin finds himself stargazing, beset by an overwhelming awe for this land of which they all are a part. He had missed this.

Kilgharrah finally appears amidst a clearing in the forest, doing what seems to be the dragon equivalent of pacing. He visibly relaxes when Merlin arrives.

“Merlin,” the dragon says empirically. His head is bowed in something like reverence, and if Merlin didn't know better, he would think Kilgharrah was smiling.

“I heard your call, obviously,” Merlin begins, stupidly. Kilgharrah doesn't seem bothered.

“I have wonderful news, Merlin.”

“Yes?” Merlin is curious. Usually Kilgharrah only calls for him when he needs to stop some prophecy or other. This makes him more than a little skeptical.

“It is Aithusa. She's come of age.”

“Ah.” Merlin is happy to know that the dragon is well, of course, but the information seems a tad trivial. Unless –

“You said ‘she,’” he blurts. Aithusa’s gender had always been vague before. Kilgharrah nods and his scaly lips spread to reveal a terrifying, toothy smile.

“Indeed. Aithusa’s sex has been determined, and she is a fully-fledged female dragon.”

“Does that mean –”

“She can bear dragonlings, yes. And I am still spry enough that I may play a part in that.” Kilgharrah looks immensely proud, and although Merlin is touched, he wrinkles his nose.

“But she's so much younger than you.”

“Yes,” Kilgharrah says, clearly impatient, “but we are trying to prevent the death of our kind. Aithusa is old enough to understand the complexities of the situation, and she has consented. Think practically, Merlin.”

“Then the dragons will live on!” Merlin is suddenly overcome with a vast relief – that Uther’s efforts to extinguish magic were not successful, that magical beasts may one day repopulate the land, that his efforts have led to a tangible victory.

“We will,” Kilgharrah affirms. His lidded, sallow eyes are abnormally bright and damp. “And I would like to be the first to thank you for bringing this about.”

Merlin thoroughly enjoys the recognition, but flushes nonetheless.

“I only rescued an egg, that's all,” he says quietly.

“Ah, but you are forgetting,” Kilgharrah continues. “As a Dragonlord, you wake us from our eggs. Only you may bring us fully into this world.”

Merlin finds himself grinning.

“So I will help with your offspring?”

“Not quite,” the dragon admits. “Our lives are much longer than yours, and our forming as well. You may very well be dead before the first egg is ready to hatch.”

Merlin’s face falls.

“And as the last Dragonlord, your chance dies with me,” he murmurs.

“Wrong again. This is where you come in. As long as you produce an heir, you may continue the line and ensure that our reciprocity remains.”

“An heir?” Merlin blanches.

“Surely you understand the process.”

“Yes, of course,” Merlin snaps, “but… there is no other way?” Kilgharrah fixes him with a disappointed look.

“This is not about you, young warlock. If you do not continue the line, then both of us, dragons and Dragonlords, will be doomed. Abandon your selfish whims and take a look at the bigger picture. It is our duty to remedy Uther’s tyranny. No matter our feelings.”

Merlin’s stomach gives an uneasy lurch at Kilgharrah’s accusations. Deep down, he knows it's the right thing to do, but the sudden weight of this is almost too much to bear. His destiny with Arthur had seemed easy – he could protect Arthur, someone he’d grown to love and for which he would gladly die. There was no hardship in that. This, this was different.

“I will do my best,” he finally says, and Kilgharrah nods his assent, though his eyes remain narrowed.

When he returns to his small bed he shifts restlessly. Can he really condemn a poor woman to growing his child? How could he explain to her the ramifications? How could he expect her to understand? What's worse, there is something about having children that has always unnerved him. Perhaps it is only his own experiences that have informed this, fearing for his life because of his abilities.

Any child of his would inherit the same traits, the same scars, and would surely suffer immensely in the world Uther Pendragon has created. Forebodingly, Merlin isn't quite sure he can doom another to such a fate, but he also isn't quite sure he has a say in the matter. 


	2. ARTHUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur bickers with his council (rather, Gwaine bickers with Arthur's council and Arthur looks on).

The council room is stifling in the August heat. By this point, even Arthur's eyelids are sweating. He finds his gaze drifts to a fly on the table as it rubs its little insect hands together greedily on the rim of his glass of sweet wine. Before him, Natalis and Sir Gwaine are arguing about the price of ale. Again. 

“With all due respect, Sir, I think everyone at this table knows the only reason you fight to lower the ale tax is so you can find thriftier ways to knock yourself out at The Rising Sun,” Natalis spits. 

“Thank you for the dues, my Lord,” Gwaine says with faux sweetness, “but ale is a part of each and every house in Camelot. The men drink it, the women drink it, the children. It is a staple of their diet.”

“Don't be absurd,” Natalis splutters. “Beer is for the peasantry. It is an unwholesome drink and leads men to folly – but then, you would be quite familiar to that, Sir Gwaine. If they want distillery, they can always turn to wine. Far less barbaric.”

“How can they turn to wine," Gwaine retorts, nostrils flaring, “when the price of shipments from the south are twice a year’s wages?” Arthur glances guiltily at his goblet; he had never considered its cost. By now Natalis is red in the face and Gwaine is uncharacteristically flustered. Arthur wants to intervene, but finds himself boyishly timid. 

“I suppose expensive imports are the price of life in this backwater you call home!” Natalis is saying. At the other end of the table, Geoffrey quirks an eyebrow in a manner akin to Gaius as Gwaine laughs uproariously. 

“You are as much a Briton as I,” he says. “Tell me, have you ever set foot in the fatherland and would your supposed countrymen recognize you if you did?”

“Gwaine, please,” Arthur interjects. Natalis is obviously enraged and Arthur doesn't want a duel on his hands. “The ale tax can wait. There are more pressing matters at hand.” Gwaine is clearly barely containing himself when he nods his assent, but Natalis at least appears placated. 

“Leon, if you could,” Arthur says, and the captain arises from his seat to Arthur's left. 

“Our scouts to the east have been reporting increased Saxon activity,” he says briskly. “We suspect there is a larger force amassing beyond Lundein and Anglia.”

“Then we must be ready,” Arthur poses. “Now is not the time to be quarreling amongst ourselves, but to be preparing for war.” Both Natalis and Gwaine nod at this, looking slightly abashed. 

“There's more,” Leon says uneasily. His eyes flicker to Arthur as if to gauge his reaction. “They appear to be training sorcerers for battle. And there is a witch-woman.”

“I see.” Arthur doesn't need to be told who they believe this woman is. 

“We should have the girl killed and be done with it,” Natalis says after a pause. “We cannot hope to fight both the invaders and the tribes. Cut off the head of the beast and we’ll be left with ordinary men that can be slain by sword alone.”

“It won't be that simple,” Geoffrey murmurs over the scratching of his writing. “Morgana’s death may scatter the magical forces, but they will regroup in perpetuity. The young and passionate will always rise to take the place of the fallen.”

“Are you suggesting we leave her be?” Natalis asks. “The girl is a threat nevertheless.”

“I’m suggesting we have a plan,” Geoffrey says, looking thoroughly unimpressed, “rather than simply let an assassin loose and hope for the best.”

“Geoffrey is right,” Arthur agrees. “There must be a contingency plan in place. Morgana’s followers will not go quietly.”

Natalis nods begrudgingly on the other end of the table as Geoffrey marks on his ledger. The man’s gaze draws up to alight upon Arthur’s, and then his eyes brighten with intent.

“If I may, sire,” he begins with saccharine tones, “perhaps we should further discuss your marriage intentions.” Arthur can feel his jaw harden into a scowl, despite himself.

“We have discussed them,” he says. “Now is hardly the time to be bride-hunting.”

“I disagree; how better can we build our forces against the Saxons than with a marriage alliance?” Pausing in his scribery, Geoffrey peers at his king in question. Arthur squirms, searching for a response. In the end, it comes from an unlikely source, by way of a knock at the door. Arthur signals his guardsmen to open it with what is no doubt visible relief.

“Pardon,” Merlin says as he enters with a stack of tomes fetched for Geoffrey’s perusal, and Arthur has rarely felt so happy to see his face. Even better, Merlin stumbles a bit as he shuffles over to the table, a few slips of paper escaping his haul. It seems to distract Natalis sufficiently, if the way he clenches his jaw is evidence enough. Merlin seems to sense the tension, but only furrows his brow in question. Arthur takes the opportunity to cut their time short.

“Council is dismissed,” he announces. “Meeting will resume tomorrow after breakfast.” 

The room erupts into a cacophony of voices, pushed chairs, and footsteps as the courtiers leave the room. Arthur remains in his seat, rubbing at his brow anxiously. As Leon departs, he casts his king a sympathetic glance, though it only makes Arthur’s belly churn more. Merlin catches the exchange and purses his lips, but follows the others out.

Arthur knows that as a king he needs to be swift and decisive, and that his sibling affection shouldn’t affect his ability to act in the best interests of his people, but he still finds it difficult to attach the ruthless, cunning she-witch to the girl he grew up with that fiercely defended the accused and outmaneuvered him at every turn. 

Uther always impressed upon him that magic corrupted and corrupted wholly, while Merlin once told him that magic is a tool, able to create or destroy. If his father is correct, can Arthur justify this farcical hunt for someone who may not be in control of herself? And if Merlin is correct, it makes her betrayal that much more painful, given that her actions were at least in part by choice.

Sometimes Arthur wonders if there’s something wrong with him, that leads his friends to abandon him. 

Save the twin guards at the door, the fly is his only company. It mocks him. 

Several minutes pass, or perhaps only a few moments, before there is a knock at the door. Arthur straightens himself before responding. 

“Enter.” 

It is George, stalwart and stoic as usual. The seat of castellan suits him, as does the flowing Camelot livery. 

“Sire,” he says, bowing deeply. “The lady Guinevere and Sir Lancelot have arrived. They are in the courtyard. Do you wish to greet them first, or shall I lead them directly to their rooms?”

“Let me welcome them,” Arthur insists. “I always have time for old friends.”

“As you wish.” George turns in a swish of red fabric and gestures for Arthur to follow. Though George is by no means an exceptionally tall man, his brisk pace requires that Arthur take quick steps in order to keep up. 

Arthur finds himself with a fluttering in his belly. It has scarcely been half a year since he dispatched Sir Lancelot to the southern border, and with him, his new lady wife, but it feels as though years have passed. Arthur has missed both of his friends dearly since their departure, but all three agreed their move was for the best. The council had been both exasperated and relieved when Arthur announced his intentions to divorce from Guinevere. They were not looking forward to another of their ruler’s impractical spousal searches, but as Gwen had bore him no heir, she simply had to go. The courtiers had been increasingly pressuring him to take a new bride in the year since, even more so when Lancelot and Guinevere wed. Merlin, for his part, seems loath to provoke a presumed anger or despair, handling him as delicately as a child. 

The courtyard is sparsely populated, people and horses alike honey-slow under the weight of the sun. At the foot of the great stairs Arthur can see Lancelot helping his wife down from her horse. The two wear heavy riding cloaks, no doubt sweltering underneath, but both beam widely. Lancelot keeps an arm around Guinevere’s waist as they step forward to meet their king, and Arthur notices that his previous wife moves slower than usual, leaning on her husband for support. When she curtsies, it is shallow and shaky. Gwen stumbles forward slightly and Lancelot immediately rushes to steady her. One of his large hands comes to rest on her belly, and it is then that Arthur notices the swell underneath. 

“Oh,” he says. Gwen flushes at his speechlessness. 

“We were just as surprised as you, sire,” she says softly. Arthur notices that she is taking great care to avoid his gaze. He feels the red heat of shame creeping up the back of his neck, both at her condition and the formality of their exchange. 

“I see,” he manages to say. “You both must be tired from your long journey. George can take you to your rooms so that you may rest before supper. I hope to see you then.” 

Arthur knows the smile he offers them is a little off-kilter, and when he turns to leave, he can feel their eyes on him.


	3. MERLIN

It isn’t until after the dinner banquet that Merlin is able to speak with Gwen, and by then the news has spread far and wide: the ex-queen is with child.

Merlin knows what this means for Arthur. It seems Gwen is not infertile as the council had previously surmised. Over five years with Arthur and not even a quickening, yet mere months with Lancelot and already heavily pregnant. The nobles would gossip about Arthur’s ability to produce an heir, no doubt. It seems he and Arthur would both be expected to spread their seed. Merlin feels uneasy at the thought.

He finds Gwen alone in the south wing guest’s chambers, sitting at the table and rubbing her belly with a small smile on her face. Despite the hardship this will place on Arthur, Merlin can’t help but feel happy for Gwen. At least one of them can get what they want.

“My lady,” he says, knocking on the open door. Gwen looks up and her face splits into a wide grin.

“Merlin!” she says. “Lancelot just stepped out for a moment. I would get up to greet you, but…”

“I understand,” Merlin finishes for her. He pulls a chair up next to her and plonks his feet up on the table, sore and firm from the day’s work. Gwen laughs.

“I see you still care little for propriety.”

“Why should I?” Merlin shrugs. “It hasn’t ever done me any favors.”

“And you certainly wouldn’t act so stiff around an old friend,” Gwen adds. Her gaze is soft and fond, and Merlin is hit with how much he has missed her, both she and Lancelot.

“Certainly not,” he says. “How have you been? Busy, I suppose?”

Gwen rolls her eyes and playfully swats at his hand.

“You know that as well as I. Lancelot has been such a nervous wreck, it seems there’s no worry left for me,” she says.

“How is it?” Merlin asks tentatively, but Gwen only tilts her head in question. He’s more than a little uncomfortable as he clarifies: “Being with child, I mean.”

“Oh,” she says, looking surprised. “Not entirely pleasant, but it was bound to happen soon enough. I doubt the details will interest you.”

Merlin is a little disappointed that she doesn't continue. He has never seeked to know much about the women's matters, and even to Gaius the doors of the birthing room are firmly closed. In his lessons with Gaius, _gynaikeia_ was something mysterious and unknown to him. Women's matters are usually left to the women, though men may wonder. Merlin had come close to a birth once – a neighbor, newly wedded and newly bedded, who had spent her confinement in solitude. On the day the child came forth, even the men outside could hear her shouts. Hunith, in all her motherly wisdom, had sent Merlin and Will to the forest to play, and by the time they returned mother and son were resting soundly. She hadn’t been terribly young, but possessed narrow hips that worried his mother and the other women, and the year following the midwife had crushed pennyroyal with wine, but to no avail. The girl died in her labor, the sickly child six weeks afterward. Merlin still thinks on that sometimes, on how his mother suffered so to bring him into the world.

“So it’s not so bad?” he asks Gwen hopefully.

“Well,” she admits, “I haven’t reached the hard part yet. There is, of course, the possibility that I might…”

She trails off, and Merlin swallows. He thinks of that girl, and of Arthur’s mother. He can feel a knot form in his belly.

“But there’s no use worrying about that,” Gwen says briskly. “That is months away, now. I’d rather talk about other things. Like you, Merlin. How have you been, really?”

“About the same, I suppose,” Merlin mutters. He’s uncomfortable talking about his feelings, especially these days, when his chest sometimes aches with solitude. “Busy with work. Arthur’s clothes won’t wash themselves.”

“Indeed,” Gwen says, pursing her lips. “I often wonder whether Arthur really realizes what he has in you.”

“What do you mean?” Merlin shifts with discomfort.

“You’re more loyal to him than anyone else, and yet nothing changes. Lancelot was made a lord, Elyan a knight, myself a queen and lady, but what has he done for you?”

“That’s different,” he protests. “Lancelot and Elyan are skilled fighters worthy of their positions, and you were never just a servant to Arthur. He loved you.”

Gwen shakes her head again.

“I don’t know, Merlin. If anyone deserves recognition, it’s you. But for some reason, Arthur refuses to give it.”

“You’ve been talking to Lancelot,” he murmurs.

“Yes, I have,” Gwen says, and Merlin’s eyes dart up to meet hers. Her gaze is purposeful and infused with meaning.

“I know how much you’ve done for him,” she continues. “Perhaps Arthur should, too.”

Merlin’s stumbles backward, struggles to right his chair as he stands.

Has Lancelot told her about the magic?

“I – I don’t know, Gwen,” he stammers. “Look, I’d better be going. I have to, um. Arthur, yes.”

Gwen fixes him with a serious look.

“Think about what I’ve said, Merlin,” she urges gently. “Good night.”

“Good night, my lady.”

With that, he darts out of the room and heads down the hall, making a beeline for Arthur’s chambers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one was so short ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ can probably add another this weekend  
> comment, make suggestions, etc  
> (also au where arthur is edward II and merlin is piers gaveston y/y??)


	4. ARTHUR

The knock on his door is soft, and Arthur waits until it comes a second time to make sure he didn’t imagine it.

“Come in.”

Arthur doesn’t turn from the window where he’s been standing for the past half hour, but by the shuffling footsteps he deduces it’s Merlin. He’s surprised Merlin actually knocked when he rarely does so in the privacy of Arthur's personal chambers, but then again, tonight has been full of surprises. He listens to Merlin open the chest, presumably to sort his clothing, and then smiles when he hears Merlin stumble into the bedpost and curse. The sound of his bedclothes whispering against each other is soothing, as is the faint humming Merlin seems to be doing absentmindedly. A whoosh of air senses Merlin passing behind him, and then Arthur can see out of the corner of his eye the steadily growing light cast by the newly lit fire.

“Will that be all, sire?” Merlin finally says. Arthur feels half in a trance. It takes Merlin asking a second time for him to fully understand. He readies himself to say, “Yes, Merlin,” or “You are dismissed,” but instead, what comes out is –

“Am I a good king?”

“Yes,” Merlin says without hesitation. Arthur finally turns to see his eyes shining golden in the firelight, his jaw firmly set and brow drawn low, as if challenging Arthur to disagree. He hasn't forgotten how fierce Merlin can be in his loyalty.

“I want you to be honest with me, Merlin,” he says. Merlin opens his mouth to respond immediately, but Arthur lifts a hand to silence him. “I’m not asking if you think I am a fair or just man, but if you think I’m performing the duties of a monarch as is my role.”

“Of course I do,” he says. “You perform your duty and more, you always consider the common people, and you weigh each and every action more than any king I’ve met.”

“Even where an heir is concerned?” Merlin’s expression suggests he knew this was coming. 

“You’re doing what you can,” he says more gently. Arthur shakes his head.

“But is it enough? Is it not my duty to secure the royal lineage, to prevent the kingdom from descending into chaos? How can I call myself king when I have done nothing to prepare for what may come?”

“You are solving problems as they appear,” Merlin begins slowly. “One day you can make your heir, but it doesn’t necessarily need to be now. You have your whole life to do that.”

“I could be killed by a sorcerer tomorrow,” Arthur sighs, and Merlin goes pale before him. “It would be irresponsible not to be ready for that. Can I afford to succumb to my own selfish whims at the expense of the realm?”

“Your heir does not necessarily need to be of your body,” Merlin shoots back. “Name another, if you must. Leon is as loyal a successor as you could ask for. And he's noble, too, so Natalis can hardly complain about that.”

Arthur quirks his lips.

“As much as you and I would love that, it's too unstable a line. Leon doesn't even have sons of his own yet. Two well-aimed strikes and our lineage would be destroyed. It can't be helped.”

Merlin’s expression goes soft as he joins Arthur at the window. One of his fine hands comes to rest on Arthur's shoulder, with uncharacteristic pause; the intimacy is almost jarring, now, so absent has it been.

“It's not your fault,” Merlin says quietly, and in his periphery Arthur can see the determined focus he casts out into the night. “Sometimes… these matters are beyond the reach of men. Would you blame your mother, for her condition?”

From anyone else this would cross a line, but hearing Merlin's voice gentle perhaps what might otherwise have been harsh words only leads him to shake his head.

“This is different,” he says. “I won't give up until I’m certain I’ve exhausted every possibility.” Merlin purses his lips in frustration.

“I won't have you risking your life in the same way,” he begins, then hesitates. Arthur finds himself hoping Merlin will continue. His birth has always been so shrouded in mystery, and save the claims of the witch Morgause, no one has deemed him worthy of the tale. If anyone were to tell him the truth, it would be Merlin.

“Go on,” he says softly, and studies Merlin's gaze as it skitters to the wall, the floor, his hands – anywhere but his own eyes.

“I don't have the full story,” he eventually says, “and I doubt my testimony would be of importance.”

“Everything you tell me is of importance,” Arthur automatically responds. Merlin huffs out a kind of desperate noise, but nods his acquiescence, if a bit begrudgingly.

“All right,” he says, “all right. I’ll have to do a bit of research, but – yes.” Arthur feels a smile cross his face, a more hesitant mirror of it appearing upon Merlin's.

“Take all the time you need,” he says, and then his fool's tongue follows up with “once you've fulfilled your duties, that is. Can't have you neglecting your responsibilities.” It's a borderline cruel way to lessen his gratitude, he knows, and certainly he is far too old to be playing these sorts of games with his oldest friend, but the impulse to quash their more tender moments as a damper remains. Merlin must be thinking along the same lines, if the way his face falls is any indication. He frowns before reluctantly supplying: “if I’ve the time between your kingly tasks, sire.”

Merlin's retort carries not the wit of their infamous sparring and his suddenly neutral tone belies his disappointment. Arthur curses himself for once again pushing him away – Merlin, who has stood by him all these years; Merlin, who would die for him without a second thought; Merlin, who is the last person Arthur should scrutinize. In truth, the very warmth and companionship that in the past drove Arthur to madness (Merlin's life is _worth less_ , he has been told) has only heightened his anxieties. What will it take to push Merlin to the edge? His devotion is at times both awesome and terrifying, but Arthur has not been known to inspire undying love.

He watches in a sickly discomfort as Merlin leaves without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this turned out a lot more angsty than i intended


	5. GEORGE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is simply trying to do his job. The others are all rather tiresome.

__

Camelot is at its finest just after dawn.

Although it is technically a task easily relegated to the lower-level staff, the best part of George’s day has always been greeting the king in the morning with the castle’s news. It's essentially the glorified role of a page, but he likes to move about early in the morning and he likes to report the fruits of his efforts.

The city is just beginning to open its eyes and the mist that rolls in from the wood, obscuring the palisades and making the hillfort seem a cloud suspended in midair. George watches a crow dip beneath the white fog and emerge glistening with dew. The air on the battlements is crisp in the early morning, not yet having succumbed to the summer’s pressing heat.

At this point the only bodies in the halls are that of servants, bustling about, yawning, with tired eyes and drooping shoulders. George comprehends little their lack of enthusiasm. As he greets each by name, they offer bland smiles and murmured responses. He is only a little annoyed.

George runs into Merlin in the east corridor, staring out of the arched window, perhaps watching the birds as George had done. He's wearing that strange shirt again, the one of Tyrian hue that Arthur commissioned several years back, and George is glad their only guests at present are upjumped and hardly likely to misinterpret. The last time Merlin wore the tunic inopportunely was when Gervaise, the bear-like chieftain of the Fenlands, visited for the summer solstice. The man had naturally assumed Merlin to be some kind of well-off bastard at the first, but when he witnessed Merlin interact with the king upgraded that assumpted position to favourite. As they supped and were served by Merlin, the king and his servant exchanging highly informal glances and smiles all the way, Gervaise voiced his approval at the king’s restraint. Arthur hadn't understood, but Gervaise was happy to explain.

“You are Roman, yes?” he had said. “Some take issue with the raising of an Antinous, but I am not one of them. And he does not seem the type to abuse the power. You’ve chosen well.”

Arthur had flushed red when Gervaise smiled at him and George had quickly changed the topic and since then they had a silent agreement Merlin would keep such a suspicious garment away from noble eyes.

That had been years ago, and yet the tunic still makes an appearance often, almost more conspicuous in how mundane it is. George knows Merlin likes the shirt very much. Despite what many people think of him, he isn't entirely oblivious. He’s observed much over the years by virtue of his position, but said little. It simply would not be right to betray the trust of his employers by divulging whatever secrets they have hidden. Merlin may not be counted amongst said employers, but the unique relationship he has with the king makes him something akin, and George prides himself on his discretion. This means that even if George catches him looking at his Tyrian shirt with a soft fondness, no one will hear it from him.

George still doesn't quite understand the bond they share, but he knows it is far from normality. Favourites aren't unheard of, but Merlin's influence on the king is enough to give pause, particularly where more established lords like Natalis and Mallory are concerned. George takes every precaution to act as a buffer between the two. His father was the fourth son of a fourth son and they have a small bit of land in the west. It is enough for men like Natalis to see him as worth listening to, at least, if not an equal. And Merlin – well, Merlin seems to like everyone, no matter their station.

Merlin and the king have yet to become companions in the physical sense, or George would know – he  _ always _  knows. They do dance around each other, to be sure, easily shied and easily spooked. He almost wishes they would act upon it, if it meant the king could focus more on his duties.

“Good morning, Merlin,” he says briskly and the other servant startles a bit.

“Hello, George,” he says.

“Taking the air?” Merlin nods in response.

“Something like that,” he says. He seems to make a habit of this, responding oddly to straightforward questions. George decides to ignore it, as usual.

“Has the king broken his fast?”

“No,” Merlin says. “The kitchens are still baking the morning’s bread. Perpetua doesn't want me lurking around while she feeds the rest of the starter.”

“It is like our king, then,” George says, and sighs when Merlin clearly doesn't get the joke. “Because it needs must be fed daily.”

“Right,” Merlin says slowly. “Is that a slight at his weight?”

“No!” George responds immediately. He has little clue why Merlin still expects him to jest at the expense of the king after all these years. “It's just because he eats.”

“Everyone eats,” Merlin says, then, “that's not really a joke,” and this is why George avoids small talk.

“Did I hear something about a joke?” Sir Gwaine comes swaggering down the hallway, unnecessarily dressed in full armor.

“What are you doing up so early?” Merlin asks, but Sir Gwaine dismisses the question.

“Never mind that,” he says. “I have a great one, though.”

“Let's hear it,” Merlin says automatically. George wants to say “let's not and say we did” but that would be rude and he can hardly step away from the conversation.

“What hangs at a man’s thigh and wants to poke the hole it’s often poked before?” Gwaine riddles.

“That’s hardly appropriate, Sir Gwaine,” George reprimands, but he gasps in mock horror.

“I meant a key! Pray you, what else could it be?” Merlin snorts at this.

The knights in general tend to have a bawdy sense of humor, but Gwaine in particular is infamous for his foul mouth. George is only glad he's refrained of late from loudly taunting visiting nobles for being better capable of “fucking the stiff clitorises of their loose wives,” as he says. He is particularly fond of calling his dearest friends queints or goat-buggerers. It's something that to anyone else would be a horrific insult, but the knights in all their strangeness seem to find it funny.

Merlin, though, does not appear to be scandalized by his ribaldry. George takes the opportunity to beg his leave.

“Begging your pardon, Sir, but I must continue on with my duties,” he says with a bow to Gwaine. The man may be half made of motley, but he is still a superior.

“Pardon given,” he says easily. “And George, I thought I told you to call me by the name my mother gave me. We're all friends here.” The face George pulls in response must be an unpleasant one, for Merlin snorts. George makes his escape as quickly as possible and by the time Gwaine’s booming voice fades to quiet he’s nearly at the king’s chambers.

“Come in,” he says when George knocks on the door. He's sitting up in bed, but still looks groggy. He frowns when he sees his visitor and George is quick to explain.

“Merlin will be here soon, Sire.” The king seems both embarrassed by and grateful for his presumption.

“I don't make a habit of pursuing his whereabouts,” is what he says.

“As you say, Sire. Geoffrey has taken ill and has requested that today's meeting be postponed.” He pauses to await the king's verdict and makes a mental note to send word to the lords and knights when the king waves his hand in assent.

“The stable boys say that Mallory has been making off with oats and one of the nicer mares to the Darkling Woods for rendezvous with one of the washerwomen,” he continues. “The stable master requests that he be punished for sequestering resources.”

“Indeed,” the king sighs. Only awake for a few minutes, and already he's rubbing his temple tiredly. “See that he seeks his own transportation in future. Let him off with a warning this time. Tell the stable master he can replenish feed from the castle stores.”

“Sir Leon requests men for an expedition to Lundein. He hopes to scout the Saxon forces.”

“Give him what he needs,” he allows, jaw clenched tight. “Anything else?”

“An offer from Anglia,” George begins. He wants to tread as carefully as possible so as not to sour the king's mood. “They ask that you take their eldest daughter to wife. She is comely, they say, and exceedingly clever. She plays the crwth and speaks the Saxon tongue, I am told.”

“No doubt an effective interpreter,” Arthur says. “But I have no need of a wife at present. Send my best regards.”

“They were quite insistent, Sire,” George decides to press the matter further. “They implore you to tie your families and strengthen your defense. The girl is a little young, but flowered and ready for betrothal.” The king is frowning now.

“How young?”

“Thirteen,” George says, and the response he receives is dismissive, “but you need not consummate right away. Wait two or three years, perhaps, but cement your alliance.”

“One would think the prospect of peace would be enough of a motivator,” Arthur says. “Let this girl come to us in a few years and we'll find her a lordling. I have no interest in children.” His tone belies no give, and so George doesn't press the issue further, though Natalis will be greatly disappointed.

The door swings open abruptly and Merlin strides in, balancing a tray piled high with white toast, round cheese, honey and sweet-roast and a goblet of mulled wine. A halved lemon sits atop the bread, brilliantly yellow and robust, like the light of the heavens captured in an earthly shell. George had known within a month of his working that the king loved lemon, whether in meringue or on trout or, most curiously, whole. It is late in the growing season for lemons, but then, it seems Merlin has a talent for finding the strange fruits whenever possible. Arthur seems delighted, whether by the lemon or something else George cares not to ponder. He throws back the red coverlets and walks to the dining table.

“Thank you, Merlin,” Arthur is saying, the discomfort on his forehead smoothed by his arrival . Were he a physician, George might declare Merlin's mere presence a balm for all the king's hurts. “George, you’re dismissed.”

“Sire.” George bows and makes his way to the door, eyes flickering to the way the king studies his servant with a kind of trepidation. He closes the heavy door on the scene and straightens his shoulders, off to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> headcanon: george is the hot goss machine of camelot   
> also that dirty joke is from the 11th century but it warms the cockles of my heart  
> also also the history about the clitoris being omitted and re-added to scholarly texts is really fascinating  
> and i'm going to continue to occasionally have minor character pov chapters (george at least thrice more)   
> thank you for all your comments <3 <3 didn't see them all until today but they made me smile :')


	6. MERLIN

“It's a phallus.”

Arthur's face reflects a distaste that, frankly, Merlin thinks is awfully dramatic. It was, after all, his idea to investigate the contents of the vaults as they pertain to his mother.

“It's a fertility rite,” Merlin corrects, but this seems to make Arthur even more uncomfortable. He shifts from foot to foot as if he'd like nothing more than to run from here. Merlin turns the figure over in his hands, a crouching man with an almost comically enhanced member, and Arthur scowls.

“Men should not submit to their base desires,” he says. “It indicates a weak will.” Arthur's frown deepens when Merlin snorts, and he takes the metal man from his hands to slam it on the shelf from whence it came. Merlin smothers the smile he feels approaching and reaches for the next object, a stone woman spreading her legs to expose herself, with breasts as large as her head.

“Why would we be made to have these desires,” he asks, “were they not necessary?” He knows his words are too heavy, too real, but feels a sudden recklessness. Arthur stares at him for a long moment and in the flickering torchlight his eyes are magic-gold. But he soon tears his gaze away.

“A necessary evil, perhaps. But that should not give men leave to seek it out,” he grumbles. He's speaking vaguely, so vaguely, but Merlin has not the heart to press the matter. He returns the little woman next to her mate and pivots to give Arthur his full attention.

“You wanted to see,” he says simply. “I can't be sure, but your mother may have used these talismans, or something like it. She had the same worry.”

“I know that.” Arthur is somewhat testy when he responds. “They worked, it seems.”

“Well,” Merlin begins, hesitates. Arthur's gaze is expectant, softening with each passing moment like he's afraid Merlin might change his mind about telling him. “Morgause, she wanted you to kill your father, but she may not have been entirely false.”

“What?” Arthur's eyebrows are soaring and Merlin prays he won't be livid.

“Ygraine did use magic to conceive, she and Uther,” he says, “though I’m not sure either of them knew the price. They asked the priestess Nimueh, who was their confidante, at the time. It… did not work,” he finishes weakly.

“So he did willingly use magic?” Arthur's voice is cold now, his eyes hard. “How do you know this and why didn't you tell me before?”

“Gaius,” he says. A few years ago he would have been loathe to implicate his only mentor, but he is long dead now, and the only thing left to be hurt is his memory. “Uther did not wish him to tell you.” He doesn’t answer Arthur’s second question.

“And he told you?” Arthur says “you” in disbelief, disdainfully.

“Yes,” Merlin answers, firm as he can. “And if he had not, that secret might have gone with him to the grave.” Arthur’s answering nod is acquiescent, but there is a subtle patina of insecurity.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he asks again. His eyes are big and round as moons and Merlin curses his own susceptibility to Arthur's charms.

“I cannot say what Uther was thinking when he made the decision to involve Nimueh, but he was your father and I couldn't let you kill him,” Merlin says as honestly as possible. “It would have destroyed you. I couldn't let that happen.” Arthur considers him for a long time, staring like he’s trying to puzzle something out.

“I suppose I should thank you, then, for your concern,” he finally says, “misguided as it may have been.” Merlin feels a twinge of annoyance at Arthur’s infantile dismissal but decides to let it pass.

“You’re my friend,” he says instead, and “as I am yours.” The room goes quiet save the crackling of the flame Arthur carries.

“I wish to speak with Geoffrey,” Arthur finally says to break the silence. “No doubt he will know more than anyone else about my father's plans.”

“Gaius’s journals, too,” Merlin offers. “From before.” He means before the Purge, before Uther’s crusade, before the world was turned upside-down. Arthur's eyes are searching, but intent.

“Thank you, Merlin.” He turns about abruptly and makes a brisk walk back down the corridor and out of the vault, the light leaving with him and casting Merlin in a cold, damp darkness.

  
~~**M M M** ~~

  
“I don't know what he's thinking,” Merlin tells Lancelot that night over a jug of mead. It isn't well watered, and they are both already succumbing to the effects. Lancelot sighs resignedly, but pats Merlin's hand with clumsy affection.

“It's all right,” he says. “Arthur is inscrutable at the best of times. And I know he’d never do anything to harm Gwen or the child.”

“He is a good man,” Merlin says automatically and flushes at the way Lancelot’s eyes crinkle with a fond smile.

“Yes,” he says simply, and they both know no one's devotion or faith in the king can mirror Merlin's. Merlin thinks back to his conversation with Gwen, vaguely recalls something about her and Lancelot and his magic, but deems the topic of little importance, for now. “How is the child?” he asks instead, and Lancelot grins even wider, the color high on his cheeks a productive mixture of his drunkenness and joy.

“Gwen felt the quickening about a month past,” he says with relish. “She's tired, but strong. She thinks the babe will come by midwinter.”

“So soon?” Merlin asks.

“We will stay in Camelot until then, of course,” he barrels on. “She can have her lying in here. I think being home will be good for her, and for the child. We can wait until the second thaw before we return.”

“It will be good for both of you, I think,” Merlin allows.

“And Arthur?” Lancelot is the picture of empathy and it warms Merlin's heart to see so visible a concern.

“Good for all of us,” he amends. “Whatever else you may have been, Arthur knows you to be a friend. He’ll ensure you want for nothing.”

“As will you.”

“Of course,” Merlin says. He attempts to impart his intent despite his fuzziness, and by Lancelot's warm smile he succeeds.

It must be half an hour later and Merlin's stumbling slightly back to his king-adjacent quarters when his mind is accosted.

_Merlin!_

Kilgharrah is angry, clearly, and it's a douse of cold reality on Merlin's pleasant mood, but he knows better than to ignore the call. He diverts his course toward the forest and curses when the unusually cool summer night air hits him. He left his jacket in Lancelot’s chambers like an imbecile and now he’ll have to suffer Kilgharrah’s lecturing while also freezing.

Indeed, the dragon is wearing an utterly disappointed expression reminiscent of Gaius that tugs at Merlin's heart. He briefly regrets not having rejected the summons.

“And what progress have you made?” he begins, sounding more threatening than questioning.

“It's scarcely been a week,” Merlin says.

“And you have done nothing.” A puff of hot dragon breath pours from his cavernous nostrils and ruffles Merlin's hair, a warm contrast to the chilly air. Kilgharrah glares at him with narrowed, feline eyes that weigh heavily on his heart.

“It is not so simple –” he tries to argue, but is cut off with an infuriated roar.

“It is simple! Do you care so little for the continuation of my kind, of our kind?”

“Gwen is having a baby!” he blurts.

“That's excellent for the lady,” Kilgharrah drawls easily, “but she is beholden to no oath.”

“Arthur couldn't get her pregnant, but Lancelot did immediately,” he continues. “The council thinks Arthur is impotent.”

“I see not what this has to do with you.”

“What if the same is true of me?” he argues desperately. “What if –?”

“It is not.”

“How do you know?”

“It's in your blood. To be a Dragonlord is to be fruitful. It is your duty to have an heir and your magic will see to it.”

“I’m afraid,” Merlin whispers.

“Of what?”

“I don't know,” he says, and knows it to be true. “So many things. I don't want to condemn a woman to death, a child to life.”

“That may be so,” Kilgharrah offers, and at least his tone is somewhat calmed now, “but it is the path you must take, for the good of all. It is your –”

“Destiny,” Merlin says bitterly, and Kilgharrah nods.

“Find a woman, a prostitute, if you must, but do it quickly,” he says. “Aithusa is in delicate health and I must stay with her. I’ll be back for the harvest. Think on what I’ve said, Merlin.” With the flapping of his great leathery wings, he takes to the sky above, and Merlin is left on his own once again.

The candle is burning low when he returns to the king's chambers and the air is chill. Arthur is splayed across the mattress, legs tangled in the sheets like a great child, his sleep-shift rucked up to expose the downy hairs at the junction of his hips. He shivers slightly and Merlin crosses to the opposite side of the bed to close the window Arthur likely left open in a subtle attempt to snub his own weakness. As soon as the pane is shut he sighs and his eyes slowly open.

“Merlin?” he mumbles from his bed, still half-asleep. “Where’ve you been?”

“Rest, Arthur,” Merlin tells him, and he does. Shuffling to the antechamber, Merlin digs around in the hay under his bedding until he comes up with a meager sum of money, a handful of marked coinage in silver, brass, and copper bearing the profiles of long-dead men far more important than he. He startles guiltily when he hears a loud snore from Arthur in the other room, and wraps the coins in one of his scarves.

  
~~**M M M** ~~

  
Merlin has never been to this particular establishment, though he knows it to exist. It is run in the style of the south, he has been told, a model of efficiency. The castle gossip has it that Natalis frequents here, although Merlin has never seen it with his own eyes. He hopes he will not be so lucky tonight.

“What are you after, then?” the woman at the counter asks him. She’s older, of an age with Hunith, when she died, and her eyes are kind. She gestures toward the corner where three girls are laughing with what look like city guards. “Pick your poison.”

They're pretty enough, all of them, but Merlin has no idea what he “likes.” Instead he thinks of his task, of Gwen and the girl from Ealdor, and tries to imagine them carrying an infant.

The woman on the far right is slender and dark, perhaps a little older than Merlin. She has a confident air about herself and drapes her arm lazily over the shoulders of the man seated before her. Something tells Merlin she may be near the close of her child-rearing days, and so he casts his gaze to the next woman, who’s more a girl than that, in truth, sixteen by his guess. Her hair is fair, braided into neat plaits, and she's clearly flustered by the attentions of the man who keeps trying to pull her onto his lap. Merlin feels a little sick at the thought of making this girl, scarcely more than a child herself, a mother.

The last girl is unassuming, but pretty, and she catches Merlin's eye immediately, offering a wink that reminds him of Gwaine. She's red-haired and busty, with good hips, and by Merlin's estimate at least twenty.

“That one,” he finds himself saying, and the madame nods.

“Good choice,” she says with a smile. “I’ll have her meet you in the back room, if you’d like to wait there.”

The quarters are garish, bedecked with red rugs and tapestries. When he sits on the mattress it sags unnervingly, and he knows the ropes haven’t been tightened in some time. There are a few candles lit that cast everything in a dim glow and Merlin wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers.

“My, but you are handsome,” a voice says. It's the girl, leaning against the door frame with a hand parting the privacy curtain. “What’ll it be, then?”

He foolishly stutters in lieu of an answer and the girl saunters over, again striking him with how very Gwaine she is. Now that she's close, Merlin can see the way her breasts threaten to burst from her thin dress, a wispy linen thing slashed to reveal her pale thighs. She's unveiled, barefoot, and her cheeks sport a rouge that he’s almost certain isn't natural. The more she stalks toward him the more Merlin scrambles back further onto the bed. She laughs at his unease and runs one hand through her hair, loose and curly and wild. When she straddles his lap to rest snugly against his groin he must make some sort of noise, for she snorts and drapes her long arms around his neck.

“If I didn't know better I’d think this was your first time with a woman,” she teases and rolls her hips. At Merlin's silence she raises an eyebrow in surprise.

“Have you not?” she asks, and she sounds confused rather than mocking.

“I… haven't the cause to,” he says. He isn't naïve, nor is he overly self-controlled like Arthur. He's never really been with anyone, man or woman, because he's never really wanted to. He handles his own business like any other man, and it's pleasant enough, but when he tries to imagine himself with another person in that way the thought slips from his grasp like water on a beaver’s hide. Gwaine has offered more than once, but he's the only person Merlin can recall having looked at him with something like desire. He's not meant for that kind of companionship, he thinks, and besides, he has more important things to worry about than bedding, namely looking after Arthur, or at least he thought that was the case until Kilgharrah informed him otherwise.

“What's your name?” he asks of a sudden. She smiles at him, teeth charmingly crooked, and Merlin thinks that she isn't Gwaine, she's Arthur, she parts her lips to speak and all Merlin can hear is Arthur's voice and he can't go through with this, destiny be damned.

“I apologize,” he says, dumping her off of his lap, thinking of infants and pennyroyal wine and blood and Arthur. “Keep your payment, for your trouble.”

He leaves her there, sitting on the mattress with her head cocked like she's trying to figure him out, a scarf-wrapped bundle of coins at her side and one strap of her dress sliding down her arm.

It's only when he's reached the castle courtyard that Merlin realizes he never got her name.

When he returns to Arthur’s chambers the king is sitting up in bed, clearly having awoken from his first sleep. His shift is firmly pressed with wrinkles from the bedclothes that will take Merlin ages to smooth and his hair is mussed, but when he spies Merlin his gaze is alert as ever. He raises an eyebrow at the entrance and crosses his arms over his chest.

“And where have you gone to at this hour?” he asks. “If you move about too much you won't be able to fall asleep again.” His tone is light and easy, but Merlin can feel his own conspicuously ashamed flush.

“Nowhere,” he says, too quickly. A flash of something like concern crosses his master’s face before it is returned to its customary careful blankness.

“Best you return to bed, then,” he says. “I won't have you collapsing come the morrow.”

“As you wish, sire,” Merlin quips automatically, and as he turns toward the antechamber he doesn't miss Arthur's smirk. “Rest well.”


	7. GWEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I RETURN.

A very small, very secret part of Gwen is relieved that Arthur is bearing some of the judgmental scrutiny of his virility as she did during the long years of her queen-wifery.

 Arthur is a friend and she longs not to see her friends in dire straits, but she sometimes felt so distant from him during their marriage, especially where the lineage was concerned. Arthur may have wed her, but she was never really a true lady. If she had been from a wealthy family, at the least, the council might have understood the match. Merchants’ daughters married up all the time. Her father may have been a fine craftsman, but he had no lands to offer. Their betrothal was incredibly one-sided, and everyone knew it.

 Her partnership with Lancelot has been much more relaxed. He’s upjumped, himself, and along with his knighthood was granted a bit of land to the south, and a patrol duty from the king. No one knows them there, save the shepherds and farmers they’ve befriended. Their life by the coast has been quiet and calm. She likes the water, likes the way the salt spray pounds relentlessly against their rocky cliffs. She takes long walks during the day, standing in the tall purple grasses as they sway and watching the clouds cast their shadow on the world. She likes watching the sheep graze, something that had always seemed foreign to her, kept as it was outside the walls of Camelot.

There are parts of her old life she does miss. It often feels as if she’s just waiting for something to happen, isolated as they are among lonely rolling hills. In Camelot there was always something to do, something to see. The tradesmen gave her a tantalizing glimpse of the world apart, made her believe that perhaps, some day, she could see those places for herself. She and Morgana used to discuss that, when they were much younger. Morgana was convinced that once she came of age and took her father’s inheritance, she and Gwen could leave and see the world.

Morgana she misses most of all, though she knows she is not alone in that. Perhaps it is a cruel irony that Arthur may understand her more now that they are apart.

From what she can glean, her very presence seems to make him uncomfortable. She’s taken to announcing her approach as clearly as possible with hard-soled shoes that alert anyone within a mile radius of her coming. It’s worked, insofar as she no longer has to see the king flush at the sight of her and immediately divert his course, at length followed by an apologetic Merlin.

Today Arthur is awarded no such distance from the representation of his failings as the entire court turns out to see off a good portion of Camelot’s knights, including Leon, Gwaine, and Lancelot. Leon is to ride east, to scout the Saxons and treat with them, if possible. Arthur keeps using that word, “Saxons,” to describe them, although no one in the courtyard is ignorant of the deeper intent.

Gwen had considered journeying with them, if not to get a glimpse of her old mistress, then to have a greater part in curbing the war. She sometimes feels so impotent, only a month quickened, yet already restricted to tranquility and repose for her health’s sake. The days until the child arrives number greater than the journey, she knows, but Lancelot is vehement that she stay in the castle.

He has promised, though, to write as frequently as time allows with news from the front. Optimistically, he doubts they will even see Morgana and her sorcerers, but Gwen isn’t so sure. She’s known Morgana far longer than him, and it would be just like her to take advantage of their presence to make some big display of her strength.

“We’ll be back before the chill sets in,” Lancelot asserts. Although she knows he hopes to reassure her, Gwen can see the way his hands shake as he fits his high-fronted saddle.

“Even so,” she says, gently taking the bridle from him, “don't keep me in the dark. I won't be some ignorant girl waiting in fear.” At this, Lancelot grins at her and covers her calloused hands, disguised by gloves, with his own. It is another reminder of how very foreign she is to this life.

“Don't I know it.”

When he mounts his steed his shoulders carry a weight, she can see, and she grasps his hands as firmly as she can. With a curt nod, they’re off.

As she watches Lancelot’s slowly retreating back, a pang strikes her not unlike that of when she first had to watch him leave Camelot.

“My lady.” Gwen turns to see Natalis has moved to her side, posture impeccable as always. His eyes trail to her slight bump and she squares her shoulders, preparing for a critique.

“Sir.”

“You are with child, I have seen,” Natalis says. “I was not sure if the rumors bore truth. It was quite quick, don't you think?”

“You would do well to hold your tongue, sir,” Gwen says. She struggles to restrain her anger, though Natalis’s ideas on her value are hardly isolated. He at least has the decency to look somewhat chastised.

“Apologies, my lady, if I have let my worries get the better of me,” he says stiffly. “But I find that in these times suspicion comes easy.”

“Suspicion of one’s allies,” Gwen counters, “only serves to weaken our ranks.” Natalis appears surprised by her argument, and nods almost automatically.

“Well said, my lady. I did not know you were a woman of thought.”

“I have my moments.”

“Perhaps that is why the king took such an interest in you,” he murmurs, like he’s trying to solve some sort of puzzle.

“Perhaps it is, but Arthur’s business is hardly ours now.”

“You love him well,” he begins awkwardly, and in spite of her misgivings Gwen gestures for him to continue. “Perhaps you can convince him to take a new wife, or name a successor, at least.” Gwen smirks at that.

“You know as well as I that the king’s opinion is steadfast. If you really seek to change it, I suggest you ask Merlin. No one has better favor than he.” Natalis is reluctant, but does nod, when given a moment.

“I’ll defer to your better judgment,” he says, and Gwen enjoys the half-praise, despite herself. “Merlin does seem the key to the king, in more ways than one.” He glances at her as if waiting for some sort of confirmation, but she refuses to give it. Instead, she deftly changes the subject. If her queenship taught her anything, it was how to be charmingly diplomatic.

“Lancelot’s told me you have been discussing new ways to protect Camelot against magical attacks,” she says. Natalis’s eyebrows soar toward his hairline in surprise.

“He speaks true,” he says hesitantly. “What of it?”

“I want to help.”

“My lady –” Natalis begins, his hands outstretched like he’s trying to calm a startled horse, but she doesn’t let him finish.

“I won’t sit about doing nothing while Morgana’s armies get closer each day,” she says. “I want to know more.” Gwen isn’t sure if she’s imagining it, but for a second it’s like she sees a glimpse of respect in the man’s eye.

“Very well,” he nods. “I doubt Geoffrey will begrudge you access to the library. The sorcery codes are there, and the histories, too. If you find anything… enlightening, let us know.” With that, he bows before ascending the stairway

 

~~**G G G** ~~

 

Gwen is surprised to find Merlin in the stables that afternoon, scouring a mare’s blanket with lye and ash, his hands raw from the scrubbing. Her own no-longer working hands ache in sympathy. She’s even more surprised, and not at all pleased, to see the way his brow is drawn low.

“What’s he done now?” The way Merlin startles at her voice and drops the boar’s brush is almost funny, but his frown still concerns her.

“Gwen! I didn’t see you there. Who? What?”

“Arthur,” she says easily. “No doubt he’s the reason you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” Merlin says immediately, but says nothing of her assumption that Arthur is involved. He picks at the edge of his nettle-shirt, a garment clearly too big for him going by the way it hangs off one shoulder. She wonders, fleetingly, if he’s been eating enough.

“As you say.”

“I’m not!” he insists. “It’s just…” His hesitant upset tells her that he’s caved easily, and she prepares for another thinly-veiled complaint about “a friend” that is troubled.

“Have you ever been put in a position where… you weren’t forced into something, not really, but nor were you entirely willing? Like accepting was terrifying but refusing was worse?”

“I suppose I have,” she says, disarmed, “but that can be the way of things, I’m afraid. The answer may lie in fate.”

“Fate,” Merlin says, “right.”

“But destiny does not mean you have no choice. It’s more of a guide, maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he ends up mumbling, and Gwen can see his focus shift away with every moment. Maybe he’ll be more inclined to speak if it continues.

“Does Arthur have anything to do with this?” she risks.

“No, of course not,” Merlin says, quick, as ever, to defend him. Still, he does appear honest, if hesitant. Gwen does not think Arthur so callous as to place some kind of ultimatum upon Merlin, but no doubt his usual abrasiveness has stung.

“Then I won’t pry further unless you wish it,” Gwen concludes, “but truly, Merlin, you’re one of my dearest friends. I’m here, should you need me.” Merlin’s answering smile is easier, and it soothes her worries somewhat. He turns his face to the ground and fidgets for a moment before replying.

“Just don’t tell Arthur?”

 

~~**G G G** ~~

 

“Have you no concern for anyone but yourself?” Gwen seethes as she bursts into the king’s chambers. Arthur, roasted pheasant’s thigh halfway to his open mouth, stares wide-eyed like a doe caught on the road. 

“Guinevere?”

“Merlin,” she says. “What have you done to him now?” Now Arthur is looking more himself, jaw set like he’s in a mood, and he drops the meat onto his platter.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says stiffly.

“No idea? Then why did I find him sulking in the stables? He’s your friend, Arthur, everyone knows it, and he should be treated like a friend.”

“I treat him finer than most masters do their servants.”

“And he still deserves more.”

“Who do you think you are, Morgana?” They both freeze as he mentions the ghost of Camelot. Although Gwen is still furious with Arthur for however he upset Merlin, her anger fades somewhat at the devastated look upon his face. She sighs heavily and goes to close the door, to give them some semblance of privacy.

“I’m sorry, I’ll admit that was rash,” she says to a still dumbstruck Arthur, “but hearing Merlin talk about feeling afraid and refusing to deny your involvement was not something I wanted to happen today.”

“Merlin is afraid?” Now Arthur wears a frown and looks concerned, even.

“Why do you do this?” she finally asks out of frustration, and at Arthur’s confused response adds, “only show your affection for him when he’s not around to see it?”

“I don’t,” he says, lamely.

“You hardly give him a kind word. You can’t make a friendship by halves. Merlin loves you, but he won’t be able to tolerate this forever. One day he may leave.”

“He would never,” Arthur says stubbornly. “He’s loyal.”

“To a fault, it seems, and that may be his ending. If you’re truly concerned, you’d best ask Merlin about it.” Gwen leaves the room, and Arthur doesn’t stop her.

**Author's Note:**

> some historical notes for this if anyone's interested:  
> \- although much of the knight stuff/feudal makeup in the show is more french late medieval i'm sticking with the 5th century bc saxons  
> \- the descriptions of pregnancy and women's bodies in this are going to sound rather... off because i'm going with more medieval perceptions (though some of these perceptions may be more akin to the later medieval period)  
> \- i'm going with arthur being half roman, half briton à la 'mists of avalon' so his ideas about sexuality, masculinity etc are very roman (get ready for dick size jokes later on)  
> \- gender and sexuality in this piece are also going to be more classical; i.e. while i headcanon certain characters as modern identities, they won't be stated as such in the story  
> 


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